Living Again
by blackrose113
Summary: After all the killing and the fighting, after the war, they really were just two teenagers trying to find themselves, and fall back in love. Post-MJ, Pre-epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

Living Again

Summary: After the killing and the war, they really were just two teenagers trying to find themselves, and fall back in love. Post-MJ, Pre-epilogue.

Chapter 1: Back in my life

I shuffle through the house that isn't a home, starting at the blank walls and empty rooms. Everything's dusty and cold, and I really can't stand it. I really never use these rooms anyways, I'm not quite sure what to do with them. Before the Quell, my mother and Prim cleaned the whole house weekly. _Prim…_ I push the thought of her out of my mind. I still can't think about her yet.

Thirty rooms in this house—a mansion, really—and here they are wasting away. Just like me. Suddenly I'm angry. So much space and nothing to fill it with. It mirrors my days, which have so many hours, and nothing and no one to fill them with. No one worth the time because everyone I care about is dead or gone and lost. In a sudden rage, I stomp down to the basement, still wrapped in the blanket that hangs from my shoulders, and grab a toolkit and old, wooden boards that are lying around. I bolt every room in the house shut, except one bathroom, my bedroom, and the living room and kitchen, both which are door-less. There, it's more like my tiny three room shack from the Seam. Not exactly, but as close as I'll get.

Suddenly I'm exhausted and I slide down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The leftover boards and tools clatter to the ground and lay there forgotten until the sunlight streaming through the window dims and disappears. It's soon replaced by the artificial lights of the streetlamps lining the sidewalks of Victor's Village. I notice none of this though, as I've fallen into a fitful sleep. It's not until Greasy Sae gently shakes me awake that I realize it's dinner time.

My head is pounding and I awkwardly rub it through the blanket still on my shoulders. I haven't been comfortable in so long that the aches in my neck and back from my slumped nap on the floor don't even bother me. But this headache is actually quite distracting. Why? Oh, yeah. I forgot to take my pills this morning. And yesterday morning. My withdrawal symptoms intensify and I cave into my body's demands for my prescription drugs. How many am I supposed to take again? I shake my head and guess, popping several different pills in my mouth. As I wash them down with some water, Greasy Sae is setting up for dinner. She pulls out four bowls and begins ladling the soup into them.

"Katniss, can you bring over some spoons and a knife?"

I murmur a "yes" and bring over three spoons, one for me, Greasy Sae, and her granddaughter. She sets the table and I notice the extra bowl. Frowning, I ask why it's there. Greasy Sae just clucks her disapproval at me and says "I also asked for a knife. Katniss. Nevermind, I'll get it myself."

She grabs another spoon and knife, and as an afterthought brings a cutting board to the table as well. As I'm about to begin eating, she clucks her disapproval again. "Not until everyone is at the table, Katniss! No manners at all. Even Liles is waiting."

I look to her granddaughter and see that indeed, Liles is sitting in front of a bowl of steaming stew, her hands folded on the table, and swinging her legs under the table.

"Who else is coming? Haymitch?"

I hear the front door open and almost regret never locking the door. As I'm about the get up from the table, Peeta comes into view, holding a loaf of bread under his arm. The patchwork of skin on his face and neck are quite visible in the light of the kitchen, and I realize I haven't seen him since he planted the primroses outside my house over a week ago. The way he was bent over hid most of the scars from me. I look down to my arm and see that my skin looks no better. As I process these thoughts and my heart pounds ever faster in my chest, Peeta gives a small smile to Greasy Sae and Liles, and sets the loaf of bread on the cutting board. I can smell it from here, so it must be fresh. He also sets a small box down in front of Liles with another kind smile—one so reminiscent of the ones the old Peeta threw my way every time he looked at me.

Liles squealed in appreciation and squeaked "Tart! Tart!"

Greasy Sae gets up from the table and putters over to Liles, "Yes yes Liles. Tart. Now say thank you, and remember you don't get to eat it until after dinner!"

Liles pouts, but grins at Peeta and says "THANK! YOU!"

"You're very welcome, Liles."

Peeta picks up the knife from the table and I hate myself for it, but my breath catches in my throat. I can't help it, it's a reflex. All I can think of his him plunging that knife in my chest with that wild look in his eyes just like when he tried to choke me to death. The crazed grimace on his face. I hope no one notices. Peeta does. Hurt flashes through his eyes, and he guiltily sets down the knife. "Maybe you should serve the bread, Sae?"

Greasy Sae nods and slices thick slices of warm sourdough bread for us to dip into our stew. Dinner goes quietly, with no one speaking, and only the clink of silverware and the slurp of soup interrupting the silence. Even Liles seems to know something is wrong, and she behaves herself quite well this evening. When everyone's eaten their fill, Peeta thanks Greasy Sae for a delicious meal once again.

Once again? Does she cook for him too? I really have no idea what else Greasy Sae does during her day. I guess it's my fault for not asking or paying attention.

Greasy Sae laughs when she sees Liles ripping open the box and pulling out a beautifully decorated fruit tart. Peeta must have made it for her for dessert. "TART!" she squeals again, and she devours the treat in several seconds. Peeta says something to Greasy Sae that I don't hear, and a short while later she's leaving. "Come on, it's time to get home." Greasy Sae takes Liles' hand and leads her out. "I'll see you tomorrow Katniss. Peeta." Sae says as she leaves the house.

Peeta looks at me and offers an uncomfortable smile. I can tell he hasn't forgotten my panicked response to him holding the bread knife earlier this evening.

"Look I'm really sorr—"

"Maybe we should start cleani—"

We both begin to say. Awkward laugh. Awkward silence. Peeta breaks it.

"Maybe we should clean up? Since you set the table it's only fitting that I help you put the dishes away."

I bite my lip. "Um, yeah. That would be nice. Thank you."

We both begin to bring the dishes to the sink, stutter stepping when we get in each others way and trying to act as natural as possible. But things weren't natural. Peeta's not back and I'm still broken and Prim's still dead and Gale's still gone. Nothing's natural and nothing's normal and honestly, I don't know where I fit in anymore.

The bowls slip from my hand and crash on the floor.

"Fuck!"

Peeta rushes over. "Katniss, are you alright?" I curse and bend down to pick up the pieces, slicing my hand in the process. I'm useless. I can't even clean up after myself. Greasy Sae usually does it. I guess Peeta told her he would take care of them tonight, not taking into account how everything I ever touch, breaks.

I grind out an "I'm fine" and wipe my hand on my clothes. God I really am useless. Everything, anything at all that could inconvenience anyone, fail anyone, I manage to do. I failed Prim. I failed Gale. I guess he failed me as well. Everyone. I was supposed to take care of my family after my father died. I failed him too. Suddenly I'm crying and I'm on the floor surrounded by bones from the stew and broken glass. And I'm crying. Again.

Peeta puts his hand on my shoulder but I shy away from it, sobbing even harder. And here I am failing Peeta again, not protecting him or taking care of him the way I should. But hurting him and rejecting him just as I always have.

"Katniss."

I don't respond.

"Katniss why don't you go to bed."

I still don't respond.

He makes shushing noises to me and cleans the mess up, throwing out the broken bowls and mopping up the mess I made. The rest of the cutlery and dishes are resting in a sink full of soapy water, waiting to be washed. Peeta crouches next to me again and I feel his cool fingers brushing hair away from my forehead. I flinch, but raise my head to look at his face. His patchwork of broken pieces, just the same as mine. I see part of the old Peeta shining out at me, offering his hand to help me up. Reluctantly, I take it.

Peeta pulls me to my feet and straightens the blanket around my shoulders. I'd forgotten I was still wearing it. Suddenly I'm self-conscious about my appearance. I haven't showered in ages, and I haven't been putting the cream on my skin to keep my grafts healthy. I must look a mess. I tighten my hold on the blanket, and Peeta's eyes crinkle in a real smile. "You'll be starting a new fashion trend with this look, Katniss. Capes will be back in. Everyone will be rushing to the stores to buy them."

I breathe a small laugh, which widens Peeta's smile.

"Let's get you to bed," he whispers.

When he tries to bring me upstairs to my bedroom, I resist. Maybe I'm not comfortable with him yet, but I don't want to put more space between us. I know he'll probably stay and finish up the dishes, and I know he'll also insist I go rest. I give a compromise.

"Maybe I can just go sit on the couch in the living room? I just don't…"

He gives me a questioning look.

_I just don't want to be alone._

I don't finish my statement, but he seems to understand. So he leads me to the living room and I sit on the couch. There, I fall asleep to the sound of him quietly humming under his breath and scrubbing the dishes.

Then the nightmare hits me. I'm being torn apart by the lizard mutts, but every one of them has the eyes of a person I've killed. Cinna. Finnick. Boggs. Prim. So many more. And as I scream and kick, I fall off the couch and start awake. Peeta comes rushing in, his hands soapy and wet, and pushes the hair away from my face, rubs the tears off of my cheeks.

"They were all there! Cinna and Prim!" I'm sobbing and gasping for breath. "And the sewer and all the deaths!" I'm coughing now, choking on my own breath. "And I was alone and so scared and I'm alone because everyone keeps dying." And the hand on my back is soothing and strong, and Peeta's blue eyes are sad and understanding. And I keep crying, even as he leads me upstairs to my bathroom, where he hands me my toothbrush and facewash and helps me clean up.

It's almost comical watching me try to brush my teeth and cry simultaneously. I can see the suppressed smile on Peeta's face and I look at myself in the mirror. Even I have to admit, it's pretty ridiculous. And suddenly I'm smiling around my toothbrush, laughing and gasping and choking, but this time it's from the toothpaste I'm inhaling from the laughter that wracks my body. I really look ridiculous.

I rinse and turn to Peeta, who already has his hand held out. With a little hesitation, I take his hand for the second time today and follow him into my bedroom. He makes me change into new pajamas, turning around while I change to preserve what little modesty I have left. As he tucks me in and is about ready to leave, I grab at his hands and hold on tight. He gives me a questioning look.

"Katniss?"

"I just…"

_I still don't want to be alone._

But this time I say it.

"Peeta I just…I still…I don't want to be alone."

He understands. So he gives my hands a little squeeze to reassure me, and goes into the bathroom to rub some toothpaste across his teeth. He comes back into the room and sits in the squishy loveseat not far from my bed. His eyes flicker towards me and he offers up a small smile.

"Good night, Katniss."

I'm relieved he's staying. Relieved and confused. But for right now, I'm so tired. So so tired. And for the first time in a long time, I feel safe.

"Good night, Peeta."


	2. Chapter 2

That night, I have only one, brief nightmare of Peeta being taken away by the Capitol. I bolt upright upon waking, crying silent tears until I see Peeta, sleeping silently in a loveseat only a few feet away. I climb out of bed and approach him quietly, making sure not to wake him. Seeing him safe calms me and I brush my hand against his patchwork arm. It's warm and alive and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

_He's alright_.

I watch him a couple more minutes, occasionally touching him to make sure he's really, truly there, before I climb back into bed and fall promptly asleep. That was the best night's sleep I've gotten coming home.

The next morning, I awake to the smell of freshly baked bread. I glance to the side and see that Peeta is no longer asleep on the loveseat. The sunlight streaming in through the window lets me know it's almost noon, and I've slept half the day away already.

Feeling better rested than I have in a long while, and encouraged by Peeta's example, I climb out of bed and, for the second time in over four months, take a shower. I'm glad for the mist that covers up the mirrors, shielding my reflection from my eyes. I sloppily rub ointment onto my skin, wondering if it's too late to salvage these particular skin grafts, and dress in clean clothes.

As I walk downstairs, I notice that it's not just one type of bread I'm smelling, but three. Peeta has already baked _three_ loaves of bread today, and all I've done is taken one positive step towards personal hygiene.

The table is set for two and there's a bowl of cold stew sitting next to one of the plates. Peeta must've told Greasy Sae he'd take care of me today and make sure I eat. A vase brimming with fresh flowers is set on the table, and several watercolor sketches of them are scattered around the floor, drying in the sunlight. He must've been quite bored with me sleeping the day away and him, alone, puttering around a mostly boarded up house.

I sit in front of the bowl of stew and begin eating it, not caring that it's cold. The slurping sounds I make as I eat alert Peeta to my presence, and he looks amused.

"Late sleeper, huh?"

I throw him a half-hearted glare, and am rewarded with his laugh.

"Let me heat that up for you."

He brings over the loaves of sliced bread and whisks the bowl of stew away, dumping the contents into a pot on the stove to heat up. When he deems it ready, he refills the bowl and brings it to me, warning me, "Be careful, it's hot."

We eat in silence, and I stare at the light bouncing off the water in the vase.

"I picked flowers for you, on our way home from our first games."

His voice jolts me to reality.

"Real or not real?"

His face is expectant and his fingers are fidgeting with a piece of bread on his plate.

"Real," I reply.

He nods. "I thought so."

We continue to eat in silence that's intermittently interrupted by his real or not real questions.

You murdered my family, real or not real? Not real. Snow bombed District 12. Snow killed your family.

You stuck me with a poisoned needle during the first games to try and kill me so you could win. Real or not real? Not real. I tried to save your life. It was my fault you were hurt in the first place.

Your favorite color is green, real or not real? Real. Thank you.

The sun began to set and the game kept going. Various lies Snow had fed Peeta surrounding me, Gale, Haymitch, even Effie and Mayor Undersee, come trickling out. I do my best to answer them, but they are as painful for me to think about as they are for him. My answers are not nearly as elaborate as they could be, and some are too painful for me to talk about at all. On those, I whisper "pass" and Peeta nods. It's understood that they will be filed away and asked at a later date.

"Portia was plotting against me with Cinna. Trying to sabotage me for the Quarter Quell so you and the rebellion would have an advantage. Real or not real?"

Something in his voice prompts me to look away from the water in the vase and my eyes flicker towards him. There's something deeper about this question, something that didn't come with any of the others.

"Not real. Portia was trying to help you. Both she and Cinna cared for us both, very much."

Peeta is silent as he processes this, and he lowers his eyes, avoiding my gaze. His face crumples in agony and he rests his face in his hands. I'm not sure how to react, not understanding how this is any different from any of the other memories I have helped him sort out.

"Peeta?"

I see the tears splash on the table, and reach my hand towards him. He flinches away and shakes his head, still covered by his hands.

"No don't touch me. I'm a murderer."

He looks broken. So much more so than I've seen him since we've been back. I reach out again.

"Peeta, look at me. Talk to me."

He flinches away again, but moves his hands from his face. The pain in his eyes is so evident I almost disregard his request for me not to touch him yet again, but I restrain myself.

"What is it, Peeta? It's not your fault, whatever it is. The Capital hijacked you, forced you to believe things that you couldn't control."

He whispers something so quietly I can't hear him.

"What?"

His voice catches in his throat the second time he says it and he draws his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself. "I'm so sorry" he apologizes. Somehow I know he's not apologizing to me.

"I killed her. I killed Portia."

I don't comprehend the word at first. How could he have killed Portia? The Capitol killed Portia. They tortured both her and Cinna for information about the rebellion, and to punish us.

"That wasn't your fault, Peeta. They knew what they were getting into when they joined the rebellion, and we had no idea the Capitol would punish them to get to us." Even as I say the words I know they're empty. I don't believe them either. I feel just as responsible for their deaths, and the deaths of everyone else that are the result of a war that I, the Mockingjay, caused.

Peeta shakes his head. "No, Katniss. I _killed_ her."

I don't understand. Peeta's hands slide into his hair and he tears at it, screaming into his knees which are still tucked up close to him. I move forward and lower myself to where his eyelevel would be were he looking forward. "Sh, Peeta it's alright. Everything's going to be alright." I try to soothe him, but I can tell I'm doing a bad job as his shoulders are wracked with sobs. I attempt to stroke his shoulder but he flinches away from my touch yet again.

I don't know what to do, and so I just sit with him, whispering that things will be fine and that nothing was his fault. After several minutes, the sobs subside and he starts speaking, his forehead still resting against his knees and his body curled in the fetal position. It's muffled so I strain to hear it, but it's all too clear and I wish it wasn't.

"I thought she had hurt me. Sabotaged me. Just done horrible things. I thought she was with the rebellion, plotting against me and everyone I cared about, trying to hurt my family and District 12, and all my friends. And they brought me to her. I was so confused and so angry. I barely remember it. Just flashes here and there. But I remember her screams and I remember her blood. And I remember _laughing_. And in the end there was no more life in her eyes and her body was in tatters. And then they, _I_, threw her to the mutts. I killed her, Katniss."

I silently take all of this in. My anger at Snow, at what the Capitol once represented, is so overwhelming I can't move. They forced Peeta, the only tribute who was determined not to let the Games change him into an animal, to murder his friend and ally. They tricked him and manipulated him and hurt him until he didn't know what was real except for what they told him, and now they sleep peacefully in death while he has to deal with the knowledge of his—no, _their_—actions, every day.

The anger leaves me as quickly as it took a hold of me, and I look into Peeta's hopeless eyes. "No, Peeta. You didn't kill her. The Capitol killed her. The Capitol is to blame."

I reach my hand forward and stroke his cheek. This touch he accepts, and his hand envelopes mine. His face is sticky from tears and my thumb skips across his skin as I stroke his face. We sit there together, approaching sunset, for what feels to be hours. I notice the change in the light and glance out the window. It's sunset. I take Peeta's hand and encourage him to stand up. I lead him outside and around the house, until we stand facing west.

As we watch the sunset, our fingers intertwined, he whispers "This is my favorite time of day. Sunset. Real or not real."

I give his hand an encouraging squeeze. We're both so broken we may never fully heal. Our only salvation comes in the little things we can enjoy day to day, so my reply is loud and clear.

"Real."


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Thanks for the reminder about my plot hole. It's fixed now.

Peeta and I quickly fall into a routine, using repetition to guide us through the emptiness of each day. Some days are better than others—borderline good, even. But some days are terrible, and both Peeta and I backtrack to our worst. It's surprising how comfortable we've become with each other again, almost as if we were never apart to begin with.

Peeta wakes at sunrise, never having been able to shake away his upbringing in a baker's family, and bakes several loaves of bread. New recipes once restricted to the Capitol are spreading around the districts, and Peeta often tries these new dishes. He's begun moving away from baking, into cooking and grilling. One morning I was greeted by flat, fluffy disks of cooked dough called _pancakes_. They were served with maple syrup Peeta had asked me to harvest with our spile. I would have preferred honey, but he still avoids anything that triggers his memory of tracker jackers. Once I realized this, I made sure to clear the area around our house of any beehives, and threw away all the honey in the house. I haven't touched the stuff since.

It took me a little longer to form a pattern, as hunting was too much a reminder of Gale—and thus Prim—for me to bear. Slowly, though, at the coaxing of Peeta, I returned to the woods. Now, after a hearty breakfast with Peeta, I take a random path to the forest, never taking the same road two days in a row, and begin my days hunting. I gather berries and roots, fish and hunt, and bring my findings back home for Peeta to make dinner with. Greasy Sae has since stopped bring food, though a couple times a week she and her granddaughter will join us for a meal.

This morning, the path I take to the forest brings me straight through the middle of town, where I see a large gathering of people. I crane my neck, but being so small, and also wary of crowds, I see nothing and leave for the woods. Spring has ended and the hot humid summer has descended on us like a wet blanket. As I walk through the woods, searching for prey, I find that my feet follow the familiar path to mine and my father's pond.

I stop short and stare at the water, as peaceful and perfect as it had been a decade earlier when I would swim with him, and feel my heart clench.

_No._ I feel the sadness welling up within me, at the loss of my father, Prim, and even my mother, my last living connection to him. I try to think back to what Dr. Aurelius says to me the few times he manages to catch me, usually by calling Peeta's house on the off chance that I'm there and asking Peeta to hand the phone to me.

_I have to honor their memories. Everyone who died in the war. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I survived the Hunger Games twice. My sister is gone. My father is gone. My mother is gone. All I have left is me. And Peeta. And through us everyone else will live. I will honor their memories_.

I begin to remove my boots and my jacket, quickly followed by my shirt and shorts. Clad only in my tanktop and underwear, I take a running headstart and leap into the pond, breaking the smooth surface with thousands of droplets and ripples. The water soothes my irritated skin and cools my body. I relish the feel of the mud between my toes and the roots of the lilies and water plants growing from the bottom of the pond.

I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming in the pond and sunning on the shore. I spend a great deal of my time trying to float on my back in the water, and watch the clouds passing by. But the water sloshes in and out of my ears, and occasionally over my nose, causing me to choke. I flail every few seconds to keep me afloat, and find that there really is no good way to do this. I know it's late by the length of the shadows cast by the trees around me, and finally decide to go home. Peeta must be in a frenzy over how late we'll be eating, seeing as how he has to prepare the food after I get home. I look at my meager catchings today, and decide to stay an extra fifteen minutes to shoot a few fish. He'll be so disappointed if I come back with nothing but a bag full of dandelions.

The path home seems to take half the time as usual. I still feel as light as I did in the water. Something about the pond is so unconstricting—not at all like a bathtub that's built solely to confine you, and I feel the joy of freedom running through my veins. As I approach the edge of the forest, I remember the crowd gathered around one of the newly built shops. There have been many shop openings since rebuilding began months ago, but none drew as large a crowd as this one. The buoyancy from my swim still hasn't left me, and I decide to take a detour past the shop. It must be almost closing time by now, so the crowd should have dispersed.

I push open the glass door, a bell tinkling overhead, and notice immediately the sharp, warm scent of varnished wood. As my eyes adjust to the light inside, I hear the shopkeeper walk towards me. "Welcome to Semel Instruments. Is there anything I can help you with?"

I look around and realize I have no idea what any of these wooden are. Were they furniture? Sculptures or little knick knacks to decorate your house with?

My confusion must have shown on my face, because the shopkeeper, Semel, I assume, gives me a kind smile and a gentle laugh. "No one in District 12 recognizes any of these. Such a shame, what the Capitol withheld from everyone." He gestures to the blocks of hollowed wood surrounding him, "These are musical instruments. I make them all myself."

I vaguely remember my father mentioning that once, long ago, before any of the great wars threw a wrench in civilization, music was one of the greatest joys of the people. He said they found many different ways of making music through the physics of wind and vibration, and even recorded songs and mass produced them for everyone. Not the tacky, over-manipulated theme songs the Capitol once broadcasted on television. There had once been variety and choice and beauty in music.

"Take a look around. I'm about to close up, but there are a few errands I have to finish before I leave." Semel walks away, back to his counter, and takes out notebook he begins to write in.

I walk around the store, seeing pieces of wood assembled in shapes resembling figure-eights. Wires are stretched across them, and holes are placed very purposefully on the wood. They come in all different sizes. I brush my finger across the wires of one of the larger instruments, and am greeted by a soft _twang_. Music. Excitement builds in me as I inspect the other instruments. No, not just instruments. _Musical_ instruments. I brush my fingers against everything I can, and see a range of instruments, from so large they seem to be twice my size, to so small I'm sure I could break them easily.

I look towards Semel and see that he's still scribbling away in his notebook, and take a seat at a bench placed in front of a large, triangular shaped piano. The one Madge tried to teach me on was old and creaky, and much, much smaller. The keys were yellowed with age. This piano is shiny and black, with perfectly white keys. I press one. A loud, deep note resonates throughout the store.

Semel looks up from his notebook and I give an embarrassed cough. As I move to get up from the bench, he waves his hand at me to sit back down. "No no, sweetheart, don't worry about it. Let me tell you more about this instrument. I can tell you're interested."

I frown at his use of Haymitch's extremely insulting pet name for me, but recognize by the warmth in his voice that it's not meant to be derogatory. It's affectionate. I sit back down and he shuffles over, bent over in his age, with excitement on his face. "This, my dear, is called a grand piano. It was once very popular all around the world. It still was, in the Capitol, for a while. However, they went out of fashion nearly twenty years ago. Such a shame, such a shame. It makes such beautiful music," he clucks. I vaguely remember the days when Madge tried to teach me. It seems so long ago.

He sits next to me on the bench, and I uncomfortably scoot to the edge. As nice as this man was, I was still uncomfortable being in close proximity with anyone other than Peeta, and Haymitch when I dragged his drunken form to his porch. He rests his fingers purposefully on the white and black keys, and gently presses down. I listen to the notes as his fingers move across the piano, drawing some notes out so long they almost disappeared, and skipping across the keys until it seemed he barely skimmed them. The music was haunting at times, cheerful at others, but beautiful no matter the tune. It as so different from my previous encounter with the instrument. These notes were so much clearer than I'd ever heard before.

This reminds me so much of my father that I keep my face emotionless to keep from crying. When Semel finishes his song and the last notes fade from my ears, he turns to me expectantly. I guess my face is less than encouraging, as he looks slightly embarrassed for his show, and quickly stands. "Well, my dear, I should be getting home soon. The missus won't be happy if the food gets cold before I get home. Come by any time you'd like, I hope to see you around."

Before I know it, I'm out of the store and on the most direct route home as I can take. I come home to see him curled on the couch in the dark, sleeping fitfully. He often gets headaches in the afternoon and naps until I come home and can distract him. As I gently shake him awake, I realize I want to share with Peeta the peace and wonder I felt listening to Semel playing that instrument. We prepare the fish I caught and have a light meal of grilled fish and dandelion salad. All throughout dinner I can't forget the enchanting sounds that came from the piano, and I'm resolved to bring Peeta the very next day. I can't help but feel hopeful that it may give me the peace that hunting no longer can.


End file.
